The sudden shift in the village's attitude towards me after the incident with the Nightmare is jarring. Each interaction is unbearably awkward and consists of the most menial greetings and questions because no one's ever bothered to learn a thing about me, or ever wanted to, before last night. Worse still, they don't ever seem to expect what actually comes with forcing a conversation with me—eye-contact and meaningless pleasantries.

While the adults are weird, the kids are . . . weirder. It's like suddenly they want to include me, like me knocking that Nightmare out formed a bridge for them to cross over whatever separated us before. Snotlout's basically gone back to his bullheaded self with a side of caution when it comes to messing with me; his comments aren't quite so mean but they're still just as stupid. The twins now gush over my battle scars with an ease I wish I had. Fishlegs is basically the same as before, although hesitant, knowing he shouldn't have treated me in any other way regardless. He's always been the softest out of our generation, aside from myself, so I don't blame him.

And Astrid—

I jump like a startled hare, dropping the buckler I'm fiddling with inside of Gobber's shop when metal clangs on the counter.

Astrid just dropped her axe onto the fresh wood.

"Oh! A-Astrid, hi! Hi, uh, Astrid, what did you. . . ?" For Odin's sake, you'd think I'd be capable of managing a proper sentence after staring death in the eye without pissing myself. Clearly, that's impossible when I'm faced with my crush. I brush my bangs over the side of my face anxiously as I avoid looking at the other girl.

Astrid thankfully doesn't comment on my stammering. "Axe sharpened."

"Right, of course, no problem. . . Um, I'll just take that—" Professionalism has me heed her request even while the hormones in me scream to flee. I carefully cradle the axe like a priceless artefact—it's certainly nearly as old judging by the worn blades.

"Did you see it?"

I swallow nervously, edging back as she steps closer to the counter, drawing her axe closer to me in reflex. "S-see what?"

"The Night Fury."

I flinch.

"No," I say, slowly. "No, I didn't." I take that as a sign to drop into the stool before the grindstone, eager to cut the conversation off.

"We saw it hit the forge again. Someone even swore they saw its shadow drop down. You're saying you didn't see anything? Nothing at all?"

I duck my head, shaking it as I hear her come into the shop without even the courtesy of asking, noise in my blind spot. I fidget at her proximity, sensing her disbelief. ". . . I didn't get a good look. It was too hard to see. Sorry."

I don't tell her that its eyes were a lighter green than mine. I don't know why I don't, but I also don't see why it would be important. They don't use color in the Book of Dragons.

"Huh."

A pause. The grindstone starts up and I dutifully let the tool scrape the axe's worn edges into the fine line that marks the difference between life and death. It doesn't take long. "Here," I say, standing and focusing on the clutter strewn on the floor.

Gobber really needs to stop leaving everything here and there.

She takes it and her hand almost touches mine. I retract mine as soon as she has it firmly in her grasp.

I turn to continue working on re-strapping the shield—

Faintly, I hear, "You don't have to hide, y'know."

I can't help it—I glance up. Before I can realize my error and correct it she's already pinned my sole eye with her twin blues. "What?"

She hesitates, clearing her throat, before gesturing vaguely to her face. I get the idea immediately. "You don't have to . . . hide it," she reiterates, shifting on her feet like she's itching to run. Or kick.

"Oh." I brush my bangs down self-consciously. "Not quite sure I believe you, there."

"You calling me a liar?" I wince, but she doesn't seem to be angry; her tone is light—not quite teasing, but definitely not angry.

She steps forward again. I'm inclined to believe she has no concept of personal space, so used to everything moving out of her way. Myself, I don't have any more room to back up. "To a Viking, scars are stories to tell, trophies to bear. You shouldn't feel like you have to hide."

Did she really just say that?

I bore a hole into the floor.

"When have I ever been a Viking?" I demand bitterly. Astrid almost flinches at the venom in my voice. "After years of trying to get people to see me they only pay attention after I should have died. Yeah, that makes me a Viking, doesn't it?"

"Hiccup, that's not—" Astrid starts, but falls quiet.

Maybe if I looked up, I would have seen the guilt drawing over her face.

But I don't. I don't take notice, so my bitterness is left to embed its toxic roots deeper into me without reprieve.

How could she have said that to me, really? In what world is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III a Viking? One with scars, and those scars followed by epic tales of survival in the face of dragons?

Not this one.

"You're having me on, aren't you?"

Astrid recoils. "What? No, I'm not."

I set my jaw, rolling my eyes. "I thought the jokes would stop at least for a little while. Guess I was wrong."

"Who said I was joking?" A crease develops between Astrid's brows as she frowns at me.

I laugh dryly. "Well, you can't be serious!"

Before I can help it, something heady swells in my chest. Familiar yet foreign. A distance sense of heat, like an underwater geyser erupting, rolls through me. I'm angry again. No amount of my head telling it isn't a good idea to go off on my crush can stop the acidic burning in my heart ready to be unleashed in verbal vitriol.

"I mean, come on, Astrid. Why wouldn't I hide it? I mean, who wants to hear the story about how Hiccup the Useless was minding her own business when the Night Fury decided to roast her face? Who wants to brag about this," I stab a finger at the hidden side of my face, "when most can't even look at me without getting this expression on their face, like they've just found Gobber's missing socks?"

I take a breath. My entire body is poised to roar, almost, my shoulders drawn up almost to my ears. I let them drop with a sigh instead. ". . . No, because see, I'm pretty sure there were a couple of people who wished it had actually finished the job instead. At least then they wouldn't have to look at me."

After a brief lapse, my words sink into the both of us, and it hits me then that I might have said too much.

I can't bear to look up. Oh, Thor, just why did I go off like that? I didn't mean to. I definitely didn't mean to say that last part, especially to Astrid. Nobody needs to know how affected I am by all of this, not when they never even cared before.

And if she decides to tell the Chief, I can only imagine what he'll say—something along the lines of "they don't really mean it" and "don't take it to heart, you need tougher skin to be a chief."

"Is that really what you think?" Astrid purses her lips, blues flicking down before going back up.

"I mean, yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

No reply comes. She probably can't come up with anything to argue otherwise, not that I'm surprised.

Weariness bogs me down all of a sudden. I don't understand why I'm so drained each time that overwhelming rage eventually leaves me. The onset of it is intoxicating, I never feel more confident than when I'm too angry to be afraid but when the rush passes it's like dropping from a sugar rush. I shake my head and reach down to pick up the previously dropped buckler. "Why are you here, Astrid?"

Uncertainty crosses Astrid's face, like she isn't sure of the answer herself. ". . . I wanted to talk?" she says slowly.

Now, if a month before someone told me that the Astrid Hofferson wanted to talk to sad 'ol me, I would have had both a heart attack and the wisdom to tell them to go see Gothi for head trauma. But a month ago was before I got near half my face melted off, hence my skepticism. Just so, I point out, "None of you wanted to talk to me before. Why now? If it's because you feel sorry for me, you can save it. I don't need it."

"That's not it, I—" Here, Astrid seems to be struggling for words. "I wanted to. . ."

I wait. Astrid doesn't finish. "Wanted to what, Astrid?" I push, frowning at her.

"Right, okay," The words she forces out next sound almost physically painful in their awkward delivery. "I guess just wanted to say that I'm glad you didn't die."

I look at her funny. For some reason, the way she said that is hilarious to me. She looks at me in annoyance when I start snickering. "You guess? Really touching, thanks. I'm relieved to know my life means something to you."

"Shut up, you know I didn't mean it like that," she huffs, rolling her eyes hard at my sarcasm. "And I wasn't done. I wanted to say I'm also surprised—and impressed—that you didn't die. And that you took down that Nightmare. So. You know. You're not as hopeless as I used to think."

I don't know how take it. Both moved and offended, I twist my mouth wryly. "Thanks—I guess. Hope that made you feel better."

"Watch it or I'll take it back. That's as close to a compliment as you're getting from me. And if you try to tell someone I said that? No one will ever believe you. Odin knows it was hard enough for me to admit it." Astrid warns, but there's a hint of a smirk as she does so.

Just then, my teenage brain kicks in when I have to tell myself to not linger on the way her lips curve, reminding me that I'm alone, with my crush, and actually talking to her. There's no bravery now, and I fidget. An uncomfortable silence ensues where we stare at each other, two people in the same village who've never quite held a proper conversation before today.

Stupid, stop staring!

"Well. I think that about does it for awkward talks." Astrid glances off to the side. ". . . Guess I'll see you around."

"Oh, uh, yeah, for sure. What with getting ready for the next raid and all that."

"Right. Try not to attract any trouble this next time around," Astrid says, only half-joking as she starts to leave.

I blink owlishly after her. "If you think at any point that that is actually possible then you have more optimism than my dad does about finding the nest."

Astrid winces with a startled laugh as she exits the shop. "Ouch."

I watch her depart.

I made her laugh?

Dragon training.

To be honest, despite how badly I wanted to be allowed in, I never anticipated it actually happening. It's an overcast morning when I leave my house, the sky heavy with dark blankets of clouds. Gobber jokingly claims he always had faith in me when I walk into the arena early to avoid being stared at. No one else has shown up yet, thankfully, leaving me to slowly gear up for this new experience.

There's a smattering of weapon and shield stands pushed against the gray walls, a few field fortifications put up for the purpose of taking cover, and, of course, the barred wooden doors hiding our future fire-breathing practice targets. I can hear them rouse at Gobber's voice, irritated hisses and rumbles as they slither along the stone flooring.

"Are you ready for this, lass?" Gobber asks while dragging a shield away from the wall, placing it close to the entrance.

"Honestly? I have no clue," I reply, fiddling with my bangs and ensuring my hood is secured over my head. "But I'm not afraid."

"Good to know," he grins, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "I'm gonna start y'all off small, work our way up to the real nasties, so if you were afraid now, I'd hate to see what you'd be by the end of it."

"Dead, probably."

"Probably."

"Hey, good morning, guys."

We turn. Fishlegs wobbles in, half-asleep and wiping crust from his eyes. Close behind him is Astrid, hair a little mussed from the early hour as though she half-heartedly braided it. Guess they met along the way.

"Oh, good," Gobber says. "Now we're just waiting for the twins and Snotlout. Any bets on who gets here first?"

"Uhh. . ." Fishlegs shrugs weakly. "By my estimate, both are going to be late and have a fifty percent chance to be later than the other. The other fifty percent is all three of them showing up at the same time."

Astrid looks to me, ignoring the conversation. Her pale blues are a little foggy from just waking up. "You're here early," she notes with surprise, a raspy quality to her voice that makes my chest tingle.

I shrug, ignoring the funny swoop my stomach does at her talking to me. "Figured an early start was best."

She hums, which turns into a yawn, too tired to say anything else. I wince when her jaw pops from the force of it.

As it turns out, Ruffnut shows up in the nick of time, bright-eyed sidling up next to Astrid and snickering to herself.

"Uh, where's Tuffnut?" Fishlegs asks nervously.

Ruffnut gives him a crooked grin. "He's a little tied up at the moment."

"Oh, no," Astrid rolls her eyes. "Don't tell us. . ."

"I won't," Ruffnut preens, folding her arms. "But I can't promise that you all won't hear it from the meathead."

It takes nearly twenty minutes for their next classmate to show up, which is Tuffnut, and boy, do we hear it. He storms in with his hair frizzy as can be, tied into uneven braids that are tangled together, some looking purposefully knotted. Each breath is almost carefully measured as he nears Ruffnut, gritting out, "You tied me . . . to the bedpost. By my hair. My hair! Do you know how long that took to get out of? Not to mention these braids! How can you think to call yourself a Viking with such a terrible technique?!"

"That's why I'm practicing!" Ruffnut cackles, avoiding Tuffnut's attempt to shove her.

They devolve into rough-housing, and Astrid, Fishlegs, and I step back to give them a wide berth, glancing at each other in resignation. There's never a day that goes by where the two go without fighting.

"In that case, I'm going to practice putting my fist in your face!"

"I think you should practice improving your aim first, that was terrible!"

"Oh, shut up, muttonhead!"

"Milkdrinker!"

"Hag—"

"Can you two take anything serious?" Astrid finally snaps. "We've got actual work to do here, to, you know, help protect our people? Stop messing around."

Ruffnut and Tuffnut lift their heads from where they were scrapping together on the ground, both poised to continue wailing on each other. "She started it," Tuffnut redirects, tugging forcefully at his hands tangled in Ruff's hair.

"Ouch! No—" Ruffnut winces at another pull, "you—started it—" After yet another tug, Ruffnut just straight up socks him, which results in his hand being freed, "—by stealing my mutton last night!"

"I'm a man! We eat more!"

"A man? You don't even have any chest hairs, not to mention pubes!"

Tuffnut voice cracks as he howls, raring to go again. "Hey! That's private! No one else needs to know a man's business!"

Before they can continue, Snotlout marks his arrival with a loud holler. "Gobber, so sorry I'm late, I was saving the best for last, you know?"

He winks at Astrid, who isn't even paying attention, too focused on watching Gobber hobble up to us.

"Pshh, more like catching up on some much-needed beauty sleep," Tuff mutters while disentangling from his sister. Once they're on their feet, he nudges her hard with a smirk. "Though it didn't make much of a difference."

Ruffnut snickers, and I fight back a smile.

"Well—" Gobber starts.

Snotlout scowls at Tuff, puffing out his chest. "Hey, what was that? You talking smack?"

"Hey, quiet now. Save the horseplay for after class," Gobber scolds, jutting out his hook to gesture at the two and glowering. "Now, now that we're finally all here, it's time to begin yer first day at dragon training! Before we begin, who can tell me what's the most important thing a Viking should always remember to have?"

"Muscles?" Snotlout interjects.

"No."

"Intimate knowledge of every dragon known to man?" Fishlegs follows up with.

"Not . . . quite."

"A handy supply of weapons?" I rejoin dryly, referencing my incident with the Nightmare.

Gobber shakes his head, huffing, "Funny, Hiccup, but no."

Astrid solves it flatly. "A shield."

"Bingo!" Gobber waves his finger at Astrid. "A shield. Now, why would you need a shield, can anyone answer me that?"

"So we don't end up looking like our dear pal Hiccup over here?" Tuffnut offers up. Ruffnut elbows him in the gut with a scowl as I flinch. "Ow, what was that for?"

Everyone but me is looking at him in disapproval. I'm too busy staring at the ground.

"What? Too soon?" Tuffnut wonders.

Gobber's face is twisted angrily, eyes a storm cloud. "You better watch yer words there, laddie, or you'll find yerself putting out fires by the bucket instead of the sword so long as I have a say innit. You think yer funny? Try laughing from her end."

Tuffnut looks at me then, the way I hide my face, and frowns when he can't catch my eye. After a moment, he comes to the realization he went too far with his jesting. He must be so used to picking on me that he doesn't stop to think about the damage it actually does to me. "Sorry. Didn't mean to actually hit a nerve."

". . . Hmph. Well. Anyways, today you'll be dealing with a Gronckle. It's lazy, slower than most, but tough as they come. Can anyone tell me how many shots it has?"

"Uh . . . four?" Ruffnut guesses.

"Pretty sure it's three," Snotlout joins in.

Fishlegs raises his hand. "Six!"

Gobber snaps his fingers. "Correct. This where your shield comes most in handy. You get shot? You're dead."

Except for me, I pipe in mentally, resisting the urge to press my hand to my face.

"Now, taking a hit isn't all your shield is good for. Go grab a shield, then pick a weapon—doesn't matter what kind—and get ready to bang on it. Your first hands-on lesson begins today."

"Wait, now?" Fishlegs asks with a quiver to his voice.

"Oh, this is gonna be so good!" Snotlout bounds over to the shields, picking one up and then a mace. With no small amount of ego, he begins to flex. "Just watch me guys! I'll take that Gronckle down faster than you can say 'Snotlout rocks'."

"Whatever you say, macho man," Ruffnut mocks. She goes over to the gnarliest looking shield I've seen, spiked and covered in depictions of gutted dragons—and Tuffnut tries to usurp her claim. "Hey, quit it! I have dibs!"

"Since when?!"

"Since you were born, duh!"

"Uh, I came first, stupid!"

Astrid sighs, coming to stand beside me with a simple sturdy shield. I glance at her nervously, questioning my own shield choice. I decided on one that wouldn't slow me down too much but in doing so I surely sacrificed defense; my shield was thin, not iron-wrought but wooden. One blast and it'd be toast, literally. Hopefully the dragon would only get one shot at me before we took it down. "They never know when to give it a rest."

I snort, readjusting the grip I have on my short spear to give me something to focus on other than how close she was. "Really? I couldn't tell."

"Are you always so sarcastic?"

I shrug. "Stick around and you might find out," I reply with a sudden braveness that I immediately regret. By Thor, did I sound like I was coming onto her?

But Astrid studies me appraisingly instead of agreeing with my thoughts. "Maybe if you keep impressing me, I will."

My brows shoot up. "Is that a challenge, my lady?"

"I don't know, is it?" she returns with the same dryness I spoke with. Then she juts out her bottom lip, lids narrowing in a glare. "And don't call me lady."

Before I can respond, Gobber calls for our attention. He's standing by one of the doors, hand on the latch.

"This is it, lads! Get ready!"

"Oh, we're starting?" Snotlout queries.

Gobber opens the gate. The Gronckle bursts out, immediately diving down to chew up rocks with its impressive bite. As its jaws clamp onto the stones and its teeth break them apart to be swallowed, the back of its throat begins to glow, visible between chomps.

"Watch out!" someone calls—almost as a unit, we dive and roll out of the way as the Gronckle releases molten lava in a seriously deadly projectile. My shield thuds when it hits the ground but I don't lose it despite how inexperienced I am with the maneuvering.

"Five shots," Gobber calls nonchalantly.

I get to my feet as the Gronckle whirls around, wings beating as quick as a hummingbird's, the flapping audible like a buzz in my ear. It's bright sunflower eyes swivel and blink sluggishly, as sleep-deprived as we are, and twice as cranky. My heart drops when it locks onto me, jaw unhinging and revealing many, many teeth longer than my fingers and thick enough to wrap my hands around like butcher knives.

I'm beginning to rethink this whole dragon training schtick—this is more like a cruel gladiator fight, man pitted against beast in this arena.

The Gronckle's throat begins to burn again, the acid in its stomach melting down the rocks it ate at a rapid pace. I take the opportunity while it's still turning to start banging on my shield. Its pupils grow thin at the noise, squashed nose horn twitching and its head shaking furiously as though to rid itself of the clamoring.

Snotlout gives a war cry, running with his mace to strike it. Sadly for him (and his ego), the Gronckle whirling about in a fit results in him being plowed over by its hard, bulb-like tail, shield and weapon thrown as he lands on his back. ". . . Ouchie," he grunts.

"Snotlout, out."

"W-what? Come on, Gobber!"

"Nope. Strike one and you're out. In a real fight, that would've gotten you killed," Gobber states.

Whilst Snotlout sulks, the rest of us are skirting around the Gronckle, looking for an opening.

"I'm going in," Tuffnut says, taking a step forward.

"No, I am," Ruffnut opposes, shoving him.

Opposite of the them, Astrid and I look at each other with matching frowns. The twins spiral into another shoving match. In their lapse of attention, the noise on their side of the arena ceases.

I try to warn them, "Hey! Hey, you guys! Watch—"

The Gronckle blasts them, the lava shot thankfully hitting Tuff's shield and knocking him over, splatters scattering around them in a goopy mess. The twins hiss at the glancing wounds, Ruffnut hopping around to avoid the blackening puddles of lava. His shield's melted.

"Four shots left. Tuffnut, you're out."

"What?! But—!"

"Lose your shield, lose your life. Now git back."

". . . Fine."

Ruffnut snickers after him. "Ha, ha, loser—"

The Gronckle smacks into her, bowling her over and taking her shield to chew on.

"What was that?" Tuffnut asks smugly when she's forced to stand beside him.

Ruffnut scowls at him.

Gobber watches the remaining trainees closely. "Fishlegs, what are you doing?"

Fishlegs is doing his best to stay behind the Gronckle, banging on his shield while never approaching. "Uh, surviving? I calculate my chances of living being at least seventy-three percent so long as it doesn't face me."

"That's not a hundred percent! You know what'll make it a hundred percent?"

"Running away?" Fishlegs asks while side-stepping again. Hiccup and Astrid avoid a shot from the Gronkle.

"No, killing it will! You're not going to last like that! In a real fight there's more dragons, there's more danger, and there's plenty of more chances to die. You can't just hope every dragon doesn't see you!"

"But what do I do?!"

Gobber raises a brow. "Have you tried hitting it?"

Fishlegs looks like he wants to do anything but. But he raises his hammer from his shield, swings at the Gronkle's side—

And misses.

"Fishlegs. . ." Gobber sighs.

The Gronckle notices the attempt, and flies backwards. It bumps into him and knocks him down, before completely dropping as though to crush him. Fishlegs wheezes as the Gronckle drops just its tail on him.

"Oh—Gronckle—you weigh—so much," Fishlegs strains out, eyes bulging and cheeks reddening.

"Fishlegs, out," Gobber states, going over to relieve Fishlegs of his burden. The Gronckle growls at him, gears up to shoot—Gobber hooks it, tugging its mouth away so the shot goes astray. "Two shots left."

He shoves it back towards Astrid and I with bash on the head. It growls angrily, eyes settling on me as though I'm to blame for its misfortune.

In reality, I'm the unlucky one.

"Oh, my turn?" I ask dryly.

The Gronckle rushes at me.

"My turn," I answer myself uneasily, jumping away, angling my spear in such a way that it doesn't impede or run the risk of impaling me. The Gronckle zooms past as I roll. When I stand, it's flitting back like it half isn't sure it wants to stay in the air.

Astrid circles it still, I see. Her eyes have gone from a clear blue to steel. She's a dagger in the dark (or rather an axe) waiting for an opening.

I decide to give her one.

"Hey, dunghead!" The Gronckle's eyes narrow and it opens its mouth, revealing every crooked tooth lining its gums. "Hungry?"

I avoid the shot.

I bang the shaft of my spear against my shield, approaching slowly. The loud clanging messes with the Gronckle's poor flight even more. It folds its batlike ears back in discomfort. I'm close enough now that if I stopped, if I just extended my spear, I'd hit it.

So I stop banging on my shield, and shove me spear forward. My measly arm strength means the thrust doesn't amount to much, but it does scratch the warty hide of the Gronckle's face, beading with red blood.

It looks at me, pupils thinning, as though just now realizing it can be hurt.

It looks afraid.

I grin at it when it backs up. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Its ears perk, pivot backward—Astrid cleaves a mark into its side before it can react to her presence. It roars and flies sideways, unsteady from the pain.

"Teamwork!" Gobber cheers. "Now that's what I like to see! It's been a while since I've seen someone actually manage to land a hit on a dragon their first day."

Astrid and I trade matching expressions of pride.

The Gronckle hovers, twisting its overlarge head frantically like a dog, looking for an escape. A steady trail of blood follows it like paint on the stone. It backs up into the door that it barged out of, looking for all the world like it wanted to trade its brighter, bigger, deadlier cage for the small one in the dark, where it was safe. Its yellow eyes look ready to bear tears, pleading for us to spare it.

But dragons don't cry, and Vikings don't spare dragons.

We approach it in unison.

Its body vibrates, mouth puffing as we corner it. I'm assuming it's going for me.

Astrid does too.

The shot hits her shield, which she bares just in time. With a startled cry she's thrown backwards. "Astrid!"

"Astrid, out."

Those words hit me hard. It means I'm the only one left. The one who's lasted the longest. But my eyes dart to Astrid as she's drug away by Gobber, shell-shocked state. Her eyes find mine and I can't tell what emotion twists them into that dark blue color.

It shot her because it knew her to be the bigger threat. Knew that alone, it could take me.

Gobber calls out to me, seeing me pause. "Hiccup . . . are you good to keep going? Would you like to call it quits for today?"

I ignore him.

I won't let it.

I growl, furious at again being perceived to be the weak link. The Gronckle jerks at the sound. "If you think you're safe now, you're wrong."

It twists its head at me almost searchingly. I bare my teeth. A stare-off commences, in which the Gronckle finds the confidence to move from its position against the wall.

The arena belongs to us alone. The background noise drains away like water into a ditch, the whispers of my peers and mentor being silenced by sheer focus.

Then the Gronckle rumbles, jaw unhinging for what I know to be the last time.

One shield, one shot.

I throw my shield.

The Gronckle's eyes widen as the shield blocks the shot, shattering into pieces that distract it from the fact I've rushed forward, spear poised. With my body in motion, I actually have more momentum that the last time I attacked, and with it the driving force of my thrust increases.

Just so, the spearhead buries into the Gronckle's shoulder.

It seems to happen so slow, the reaction.

It roars into my face. The others cry out my name, fearing an attack while I'm vulnerable, but I hear it for what it is—a wounded cry, a plea to stop, a scream for help.

I dig it in deeper, forcing the Gronckle to the ground with pain alone. "No one's saving you," I told it quietly, too low for the others to hear. "No one saved my mom."

I twist the spear one final time, leaning closer to the whimpering Gronckle as Gobber calls it. "And no one saved me."

I'm a dagger that kills dragons. I'm a thorn that fells giants.

And I save myself.